


The Eyes Upon Us

by magnedhead



Category: Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft, Original Work
Genre: Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Combat, Death, Horror, Lovecraftian, Medieval, Royalty, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:36:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24305254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnedhead/pseuds/magnedhead
Summary: A prince races to rescue his family from an assassination attempt, only to find himself trapped in horror.
Kudos: 4





	The Eyes Upon Us

A noose tightened around the Prince’s heart. That had been the alarm bell in the royal audience hall. No doubt the man seeking an audience at sundown was at fault.

“You three, come with me, the rest of you, man the walls!” The Prince shouted at the nearby guards, “The attackers may have reinforcements from outside!” As the guards hurried to follow his command, the Prince made sure his sword was buckled and in its sheath before running out the door and towards the audience hall, followed by the guards he had chosen.

Beneath the walls. servants ran to and fro like headless chickens. The Prince slapped or shouted sense into some of them but soon he felt that time must be running short, and he hurried on till he reached the palace steps. The palace guard was fighting, but the Prince quickly realised he could not help; they were fighting each other, as if some of the guards were in league with their attackers.

“Should we help, my prince?” One of his entourage asked of him. The Prince looked back at him over his shoulder. The man was pale with fear, his eyes darting across the stairway and the fighting there.

“We cannot not know who is a traitor, and who is true to my father. We must trust in them and move on. The king is in peril.” The Prince replied and, not waiting to be followed, he hurried on, leaving the bedlam on the steps behind.

The reception hall beyond was as chaotic as the courtyard. Servants of the palace ran to and fro, panic and fear written plain on their faces. None were running to or from the direction of the audience hall, the Prince noticed. He moved on.

Before the audience hall, where the bell had stopped tolling, was the waiting hall, where those seeking an audience would stand with those waiting for one already granted. The rich carpets that adorned the floor were soiled with blood, though there were no bodies. Crimson drag marks on the marble flooring indicated that bodies had been removed. The Prince presumed that the men that waited in the chamber, scowling at him and his guards from across the room, were responsible.

“Lay down your arms and I will promise to treat you fairly.” The Prince shouted. The guards he had brought stood behind him, their weapons and armour rustling as they prepared for the inevitable fight.

The men drew their own weapons, a mixture of tools reshaped for fighting, as well as some genuine weapons. Perhaps supplied by the palace guards they had bribed.

“Our master ordered us to keep intruders away.” One of the men said. He was taller than the others and carried a sword, the blade red with blood that still dripped. Underneath the black velvet of his clothing, the Prince spied chainmail.

“Your master is an enemy of the crown. The castle is brimming with guards. No matter your plan, none of you will leave these halls alive.” The Prince said and drew his sword.

“The master bid me and so I follow his bid. The master will tear this world down and you will all fall into the abyss. Only we, his loyal followers, will walk unburdened.” The man said.

“I see you are as deranged as your master,” The Prince said and looked to his guards, “Cut them all down, leave no one alive. We must hurry onwards.”

The men of the master shouted some curse and charged. The fighting that followed was brutal. The guards were outnumbered but had superior equipment and training. A man came at the Prince with a blacksmith’s mallet on an extended grip and the Prince easily stepped aside from the clumsy swing and ran him through with his sword.

Even as the man was dying on his blade, their leader, possibly the personal bodyguard of their traitorous master, swung at the Prince. If not for the body of the dying smith in the way, that strike would have ended him. Instead the Prince managed to dodge behind the corpse and drag his sword out to block the following attack. Around him the guards were killing and dying in equal measure. The Prince had superior training, the finest duellist his father had in his employ, but the bodyguard fought in a frenzy, using the sword more like a butcher’s cleaver than a sword. The last surviving guard shouted the Prince’s name and attempted to intervene, only a sword-swing to remove half of his face. The man screamed and fell to the side, cradling his destroyed features even as life left him. The Prince took the opportunity of the distraction and struck the bodyguard’s hand from his body. He called out a name, possibly the name of the master, as he paled and died, his life’s blood pumping from the stump.

The Prince took stock of the room as he took in great heaving breaths. The guards were all dead, their bodies mangled by the harsh implements used by the master’s men. He himself was the only one left alive. Steeling himself with the thought that they had given their lives for his father, the king, and himself, he wiped his sword on the bodyguard’s velvet and hurried through the final door to the audience chamber.

What the Prince saw when he entered the audience hall reminded him of when he had been a very young boy, allowed to go freely throughout the palace and the keep beyond as he pleased, exploring the world around him. One day he had explored the kitchens, smelling, and helping in the tasting of delicious foodstuffs before they would go on the dinner table. That day he had also visited the rooms used by the palace butcher for his work. When greeted with the blood-soaked sights of that abattoir, the young Prince had vomited.

He vomited again today, the sights and the smells returning to him in an instant, his body violently reacting. He was forced to his knees, his hands digging into the blood-splattered carpets as his stomach heaved. When the shaking finally ceased and the Prince could stand up again, his stomach nearly churned all over again.

The dead lay in piles throughout the room, their faces contorted in agony and horror. Their bodies had been stabbed and carved like they had been attacked by rabid wolves or bears rather than men. Great rivulets of blood flowed from these piles into a circular pattern in the middle. A man was lying in the middle of this macabre circle, a man he instantly recognised.

“Father!” The Prince cried and hurried forward to his father’s side. Compared to the corpses scattered about the hall, his father’s face was undamaged and the only injury on his form was a single stab wound at his heart, the dagger still embedded. The handle had a peculiar shape, like if a snake had wrapped itself around the handle and turned to iron. He was pale and his chest unmoving.

“Son, is that you?” A faint voice called out. Surging to his feet, the Prince ran to one of the piles where, laying on top in the same pale blue dress she had worn for breakfast that very morning, was his mother.

“You are safe. Thank the lord.” The queen said, her voice only a whisper.

“Be still, mother, save your strength.” The Prince said, cradling her hand. She too was very pale, a drying stream of blood visible on her cheek. Whether it was hers or another victim of this insane massacre, he knew not.

“The castle, is it safe?” The queen said. She squeezed back but her grip was so weak, the Prince had to choke back tears.

The servants were in a panic and there were clearly traitors amongst the palace guards. Even now the assassin and his men might be getting reinforcements swarming the walls, but he could not find it in himself to tell that to his mother.

“That is good. Your father, he-“ She started to say when her voice failed her, and she had to focus on breathing. The Prince sat at her side as she slipped into unconsciousness. He remained there, holding her hand, his eyes a thousand miles away, as her hand grew slack and began to cool.

Tears rolling down his cheeks, the Prince hugged his mother and pulled her from the pile, laying her down. With some effort he lifted his father and put him next to the queen. Numb with shock, he stared at his parents for a moment. The morning had seemed just like any other. He had conversed with his parents over breakfast and left early to practice and inspect the walls and barracks. He had seen the group arrive, as yet unknown to be assassins, but the captain of the guard had insisted they continue working. The king had his guards, he had said. Where were those guards now, the Prince thought bitterly.

He realised then that he had been so distracted by the slaughter before his eyes that he had forgotten something; the master of the assassins must still be around. Aside from the stained-glass windows detailing the rich history of the kingdom, the room had no entrances beyond where he had come. He slowly drew his sword as he looked around, half expecting to see the man sneaking up behind him to finish what he had started, but the room was still, only himself and corpses in audience. Except…

Blood was running down the carpeted steps leading up to the throne. The Prince’s gaze followed the trail to find, to his shock and anger, a man sitting in the throne where has father had sat for so many audiences, where he had held the young Prince in his lap so he could see the business of state. The man had watched the Prince’s anguish at his parents’ demise and had just sat there, watching. The Prince could not bear it.

“You will pay for your crimes, you monster!” He shouted at the top of his voice and charged, sword held above him in a two-handed grip. The man moved not, did not even deign his presence with a glance.

The sword descended in a flash of steel and sliced through the man’s clothes and flesh, smashing through his collarbone. Still the man did not move. At first the Prince was stunned, but as he pulled his sword free from the terrible wound, the picture became clear. Though his sword was bloody, the blood was dark and thick, and no further blood ran from the wound. A bloody knife lay in the man’s lap, far more utilitarian than the ornate affair his father had been stabbed with. A great amount of blood had run down the man’s front, stemming from a deep gash cut in his throat.

Looking into the wound itself, the Prince recoiled. Within the crimson, the flesh teemed. Milky-white maggots, some an inch across, were feasting on the blood and flesh. The man’s left hand was coated in gore, and so was the handle of the knife. This man had killed himself, possibly having realised the extent of his crimes even before the son of the king he had slain had entered the room.

But looking up from the man’s hand, the Prince thought the man’s body peculiar. The arm that had held the knife was long, hanging all the way from the man’s shoulder joint to the floor, despite the throne being raised above the floor slightly. If only that had been all. Halfway up the forearm, the Prince also spied what he thought was a second joint and an elbow. His stomach threatening a second upheaval and he dared not touch it to confirm. 

The face above the gash was a horrific display as well, frozen in an expression of horror and agony. His eyes were open, the orbs bloodshot. His body was enormous, his head resting over the edge of the throne, the elongated arms brushing the floor. The legs, that the Prince realised with another sickening start were also double-jointed, were stretching out to the closest step, like he was sitting in a recliner in the royal study, not a raised throne.

The Prince had not attributed the man much importance when he arrived, but he was sure these horrific features had not been present when the man arrived at the gates.

 _No matter_ , the Prince thought. The king is dead, I must inform the captain of the guard and restore order to the castle. Leaving the throne, he knelt at the side of the king and queen, kissing their cold hands one last time, then rose to leave.

 _What was that!?_ The Prince whirled around, drawing his sword. He had heard a noise behind him, a shuffle. Had the man, nay, the monster on the throne faked his death? Mindful of the bodies of his parents so he would not trip, the Prince backed away from the corpse on the throne, expecting it to surge onto its feet any moment and charge at him. His heart skipped a beat when his free hand, searching behind him as he walked blindly backwards, met a cold surface. But it was only the wall of the chamber. Deciding it was just the shock of the day’s events getting to him, he turned away from the butcher’s scene and made to open the door.

But as he pulled on the handles of the double doors, they did not budge. Not even a hair’s breadth. The doors of the audience hall had no locks, and the rungs for the crossbar were on the inside. He pulled on the door again, to no avail. The damnable assassin must have more traitors in their ranks, someone that had followed him in to keep him here. Even now more assassins must be moving in, to finish the royal line.

“Let me go, your prince commands you!” He shouted at the top of his voice. Was that a whimper he had heard? But the door remained shut.

Seeing the urgency plain, the Prince set his foot against one of the doors for leverage and pulled on the gilded handle. For a moment it stayed, only to slide open a few precious inches. Quick as a viper, the Prince drew his sword and rammed the blade through the gap, hoping to at least push back his captor. He felt an impact on the blade, and within moments the force holding the door slackened and he ripped it open, both hands on the grip of his sword.

The hallway beyond was empty of people and none hid in the shadows of the door. On the floor was one of the serving maids, clutching her stomach, her hands attempting to hold back the heavy flow of blood from the stab wound she had sustained.

Seeing no danger, the Prince returned his sword to its sheath. “Shame upon you, that you would betray your king for the clink of coin.”

The maid said nothing, simply whimpered and tried to creep away, one hand scrabbling on the carpet, the other still clutching her stomach. Her face was a picture of terror, her eyes wide open. Clearly, she had thought the Prince dead and the shock had driven her mad, for the Prince had never seen such a visage. Before he could speak further, with a scream of terror the woman raised herself to her feet and ran, spattering blood as she went.

“Hold, in the name of the king!” The Prince shouted and started after her. Despite the injury she was devilishly fast, reaching the doors towards the entrance hall before he had even taken 5 steps. The bodies of the guards and the retinue of the assassin still littered the floor of the waiting room and he had to run around or leap over bodies in his pursuit. He only barely registered that the maid’s screams could no longer be heard. He reached the door she had left through and pulled, this time finding no resistance. The door was ripped open and the Prince stormed through, sword again at the ready. Within the blink of an eye the sword clattered to the ground and the Prince staggered backwards, eyes staring at the scene on the floor of the entrance hall.

A corpse lay on the ground, spread-eagled, like someone making angels in the snow. But there were no angels here. Blood and viscera coated the walls around it. The flesh had been parted at the bone, leaving the skeleton inside clear as day, like a deboned fish. The maid uniform was almost too tattered and bloody to recognise. Was this the maid from before? Had the assassins done this? For what reason? The Prince’s mind swam with questions. The skeleton inside the flayed corpse was untouched aside from the spatters of blood. Tissues still connected the skeleton, but he could not find the eyes anywhere. He quickly decided he did not want to find the eyes.

Again, the Prince whirled around, drawing his sword, and looked all around him. He had heard that sound again, the shuffling. It had been close. Backing up, the Prince was too focused and hit the corpse, tripping backwards and landing in the bloody mess. Panic and revulsion struck immediately, letting go of his sword in his desperation to rise and get away. Even as he tried to rise, he felt a grip on his feet and in trying to kick it away, slipped on the blood and fell again.

“Help!” He screamed, hands scrabbling for purchase on the floor or carpet or anything that would hold.

The corridor responded with silence. He looked down and the bloody skull stared back. He had thought the sockets were empty but now he doubted his judgement. There was something there, something that returned his stare. It only lasted a heartbeat, but caught in the grip of that presence, a heartbeat was an eternity. The Prince could barely breathe and sweat had begun pouring from him as his heart was gripped in an iron vice. As the stare broke, the Prince scrabbled to his feet and leapt away, gripping onto the wall both for purchase and for assurance. Steeling himself, he looked down again. The skeleton was still, the sockets empty in its skull. He must have imagined it. Truly this day was a test of his abilities.

The Prince closed his eyes and composed himself, then drew in a deep breath. “Your Prince calls!” He shouted. When he had last passed through the entrance hall to hurry to the side of his late father, there had been servants everywhere. Now it was abandoned, save for the flayed corpse. A part of him was sure that the corpse was the traitorous maid that had attempted to lock him in the audience hall, but he could not imagine how she had died so suddenly and in such a state. He was again reminded of the palace butcher. His stomach roiled and his mouth went dry, but he had long since vacated his stomach, and only a bitter bile came up.

But the memory of the maid holding the door engendered a thought in the Prince’s head.

 _Clearly this attack has been long planned_ , he thought, sitting down on the blood-matted carpet and closing his eyes tight against the horror in front of him. _The assassins, whoever they work for, must have planted spies and traitors throughout the palace, maybe even the keep and the country. Anyone among the serving staff could be in their employ._

The Prince rubbed his temples and gripped his sword with white knuckles as he pondered the gravity of the situation. _Maybe even among the guards. All the survivors of the keep could be working for them. I cannot trust anyone._

 _I will have to leave the castle, try, and evade being spotted or escape their pursuit, then make my way to my uncle._ Ignoring the corpse as best he could, the Prince rose and began walking out of the hall. A decision taken and his path clear before him, he felt somewhat more at ease. He could not bury his parents for the moment, not safely. Stepping into an alcove, he knelt to send a thought and a prayer to the heavens, that they would hear and understand his plight. But as he recited the prayer within himself, for prayers should be personal, he felt an attention on his person. Pausing in his prayer, he gripped his sword and looked around the hallway. It was empty, devoid of life. No one was listening.

But as he continued, the feeling persisted, like the cold breath of someone listening in over his shoulder. Unnerved, he fumbled the names of his parents, apologised to the empty air, and started over. Even as he finished and stood to leave, he felt disquieted. The calm he had felt at setting out was gone, like the warmth of spring once the sun went behind rainclouds.

The steps and courtyard outside the castle had clearly seen battle. Just like the corridors of the palace, great amounts of blood had been spilt. Swords and shields were scattered around the steps of the stairs, bent and bloodied. Armour was there too, in parts. A split helmet here, a spaulder here. But the Prince saw no corpses. Had the traitors cleared away the bodies of the loyalists? If so, why? The blood alone was ample evidence of wrongdoing, if not the results of such. There were also no signs of any servants. When he had left the walls to run to the aid of his father, there had been servants and guards running in all directions, like a flock of headless chickens. Unbidden, his mind conjured an image of the courtyard filled with headless, shambling corpses. He dismissed the image as best he could, but it lingered overlong.

He would need a horse if he wished to escape, so he hurried down the steps as fast he could and made for the stables. Thankfully horses could not be bought like humans could, and if he could get into a saddle, he would need fear no betrayal. As the courtyard was clear, he intended to stick to the wall and head straight for the stables. But what he saw as he left the steps leading into the palace stayed his hand. A group was assembled out of sight of the palace entrance. He saw both guards and serving staff, standing in a rough circle around something. Nay, not standing. They all took turns bowing or kneeling down to whatever they were surrounding. He wished he could see what had grabbed their attention so, but he wished not to get closer. Something about their manner, both in their acts and their bearing, made the Prince anxious to be away.

Holding his sword still, he lowered his head and ran across the way. A stone stairway hugged the inner side of the castle walls up ahead, and he intended to ascend it to the wall and follow that to the stables.

But as he left the shadow of the palace, some of the group raised their heads, the movement unnatural and too sudden. They cried out at his presence and ceased their attentions on the previous object, the group setting off in pursuit. Their eyes followed his every move, their limbs, seeming longer than he had seen in his life, moved in starts and stops, though none of them stumbled and fell as a result of their strange movement. Quickening his steps as much as he could, the Prince reached the stone stairway. Now that the group had left their circle, he could glance at what had fascinated them so. The sight sent a chill up his spine.

A bloodied corpse had been impaled on a spear and set upright in the ground. From this distance he could not be sure what the corpse had been in life, for it had been so horribly tortured and altered that it would be difficult to tell even up close. Limbs were extended and bent in too many places. Either additional limbs had been attached, how and from where he wished not to know, or the corpse was not from a creature the Prince had seen before in his life. The head too, for lack of a better word, was horribly disfigured. It dangled on a neck that was far longer than it should be, the lower jaw dangling by the sinews under the rent cheeks. If it had had eyes, they had been removed.

He had no time to examine further, for the fastest of his pursuers had already begun ascending the stairs. Kicking out at them to buy a moment, he turned and sprinted forward, up the stair and onto the wall. Below him in the courtyard, many more groups were appearing, converging on ramps and stairways that led to the walls. Like the initial group, each moved in ways that the Prince had never seen, like watching a cleverly manipulated puppet show with invisible strings, but the puppets were still recognisable. Supressing his shivers, the Prince ran along the top of the wall, his pursuers close behind. The Prince had to sprint to keep the distance, even though he was one of the fastest runners in the kingdom. His eerie pursuers were swift.

The Prince ran and ran. Focussing on his breathing, it only vaguely occurred to him that he should have reached the stables by now. He could see the shingled roof further ahead, but it seemed to be approaching at a much slower pace than he thought it would, even as his pursuers began closing the distance. His breathing was getting ragged from the running, while his pursuers shouted and screamed constantly, at a pitch that caused him pain to listen to.

Finally, the stables were underneath him. He would have to run a little further and hope the roof and the hay within would break his fall sufficiently. A man was ahead of him, dressed in the livery of the castle guard, probably one of the sentries normally manning the walls. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, spittle flying from his mouth as he screamed and charged at the Prince. The man carried no weapon, but he would need none. Even if the charge did not carry them both off the wall, even a few seconds delay would give his pursuers all the time they needed.

The Prince drew his sword in a flash and counter charged, the sharp blade easily punching through the man’s gut as the Prince pushed him backwards off the wall, into the empty air above the stables. The screaming stopped, replaced by a surprised gurgle, then silence. The wind whipped at his hair and clothes as he fell, trying his best to let the sentry take the brunt of the impact. The Prince had just enough time to look behind him as he fell, expecting disappointment on the faces of his pursuers. But no, they pursued him still, falling through the air behind him, leaping off the wall. The Prince was so surprised that he almost forgot to brace as the sentry’s body smashed through the stable roof, splintering shingles into the Prince’s face then slamming into the ground. The Prince had only taken some of the impact, but even so he was dazed and winded. With a grunt of pain, he pulled the bloody sword from the man’s chest. With a chuckle he noted that a broken beam of wood had impaled the man from behind, as if to take the sword’s place.

The Prince heard several thuds outside as he examined the horses still in the stable. The majority were there, though some of the individual stables were open. He could not be sure how many pursuers were still in the courtyard, and he could not risk them following him from here on.

“I hope you will forgive me. I have no other choice.” He said and gripped with sword with both hands. The horse made no motions of understanding before the blade cut its throat open, spilling warm blood over his hands and face. The horse would have screamed if its windpipe and vocal cords had not been severed. It died wide-eyed and thrashing. The Prince had no time for grief or remorse. The first horse had been easiest; now that there was blood and panic in the air, the other horses were anxious at first, then terrified. By the time the work was finished, the blood was soaking into the Prince’s clothes. The screams of the terrified horses would haunt his nightmares for years, he was sure. If the rest of the events of the day had not already taken up that space.

He had put blinders on the lone surviving horse, but even if it had not seen, the smell of blood was so thick in the air that breath came with difficulty. It reared at his touch when he approached. Aware that he had to hurry, lest his pursuers catch him in the stable, he muttered reassuring sounds and gently stroked its muzzle when it allowed his touch. When it had calmed a little, the Prince bent to clean his sword, the blade still coated with horse blood. He nearly tripped when something gripped his ankle and tried to pull him down. The man that had blocked him on the wall and fallen with him was looking at him, his hand around the Prince’s ankle. His mouth was open but only the slightest sound came, his chest and lungs utterly destroyed by both the Prince’s sword and the wooden beam that impaled him.

How he was alive and had such strength left was a mystery to the Prince, but he could brook no delays. The sword came down and cut through the wrist, leaving the hand to fall to the floor. Still the man reached for him with the remaining stump, from which no blood ran, despite the horrendous wound.

The horse was becoming anxious again in its stall, so the Prince hurried cleaning his sword again and sheathed it, opening the stall and leaping into the saddle. The horse nearly bucked, but he managed to calm it and guide it towards the exit. With a deep breath to calm himself, the Prince kicked the horse into speed and raced out of the stable.

The courtyard was anarchy. Near the stable were dozens of crushed bodies, people that had followed him off the walls to their deaths, mad with greed for whatever the assassins had promised them. Further out his pursuers were spread around the grounds, returning to their grotesque circles, though some were more like brawls than the horrific edifice he had witnessed earlier. He decided he would urge his uncle to bring several regiments. The castle was lost, entirely.

At his arrival, many of the circles broke up and ran towards him, arms extended and mouth agape, screaming despite their headlong pace. If any of them caught him, he would be pulled from the horse and killed, of that he was sure. He angled the horse for the gates and kicked again, the horse climbing to a gallop instantly. It must sense the danger as well. Ahead of him the gates were open, perhaps opened by traitorous guards or loyalists desperate to escape. At a gallop, the courtyard was short, but the throngs ever threatened to surround him. The sword did not frighten them, neither did the hooves of the horse. But they were not immune to the bite of either. Reaching hands were chopped off and many a pursuer tried to throw themselves at him only to fall under the hooves. Eventually he reached the gate, splattered with blood. The Prince gave one last look at the castle. There was that feeling again, what he had felt during his moment of prayer. Someone was looking at him, perhaps some associate of the assassin spying through the upper windows. Even though he could not see his observer, the attention was intense, disturbing. Raising his sword, he pointed it at the castle in a wordless promise, then turned the horse away and left through the gate.

The Prince pushed open the door to the audience hall. It was as he had found it. The circle was still inscribed with blood in the carpet, the blood from the attendees of the audiences of the day, their bodies piled around the chamber. He could see his mother’s pale blue dress peeking out from one of the body-piles. In the centre of the circle was his father’s corpse, the decorative dagger in his chest. In the throne was the distorted body of the assassin.

The Prince was confused. Seconds ago, he had been astride a horse, leaving the castle and walls behind to go to his uncle’s side. He had felt the reins of the horse in his hands. The next moment his hands had been on a metal handle and he had pushed without thinking, reflexively. Now he was stood in the audience hall again, beholding the grizzly scene he had raced, and failed, to prevent.

He spied movement from his father. Without thinking he ran across the carpet and knelt at his father’s side.

“Father?” The Prince said, afraid that his eyes had tricked him. If his parents had truly survived, he would forgive any attempt at trickery.

At the sound of his voice, his father stirred, his eyes opening and fixing on the Prince.

“Father?”

His father reached up towards him with a shaking hand, his mouth opening to speak.

“Father!”

As the Prince reached out to grasp his father’s hand, the man reached past and grabbed at the Prince’s tunic. He pulled with surprising strength and with a shout of surprise, the Prince toppled forward. His assumption that his father wished to hug his son was quickly dispelled when his father’s expression shifted in an instant, from mild surprise to fury, his mouth opening wide like the folk that had pursued him in the courtyard. No scream came, perhaps his lungs too had been destroyed by the dagger. His hands left the Prince’s tunic and went for his neck, going tight around his throat.

He wanted to cry out, ask his father what was going on, but only a croak escaped his throat. Had his father gone mad? It was clear from his wide eyes and manic manner that he did not intend to stop before the Prince was cold on the floor. Summoning his strength, the Prince wrenched his father’s hands from his throat and rose, stepping away from his father as best he could.

As the Prince gasped for breath, his father rose on unsteady legs and walked towards him, an inch from falling to the floor with every step. Around the room other bodies were similarly rising to their feet, some groaning loudly in an unintelligible manner. His mother dragged herself from the pile and towards him, her blue dress covered in blood. All around him the hall was coming alive, hobbling or crawling towards him like a scene from a nightmare. Caught in their midst, he could not escape. The route to the door was choked with them.

He drew his sword and hacked at their arms as they reached for him, but when his father pushed through the throng, he could not bear to strike him. His clothes were ripped, and his hair pulled from his scalp as he was dragged to the floor, dozens of hands pulling at his limbs, clawing at his face. His father’s hands clasped around his throat, choking him. His last sight would be his father’s frenzied face as he began to black out.

As his consciousness began to fade, he felt that attention again. Whatever it was, it was readily apparently among the frenzy of his attackers. For a moment it reminded him of his younger years, when his parents had watched him taking his first steps or taking some other momentous step in his short life. But there was no affection here. Just cold interest.

His hands began to lose strength as he feebly pushed back, but then his hand fell on something cold and metallic. Out of options and his vision nearly black, he pulled with all his remaining strength.

For a moment the Prince was outside the castle. Outside his body. The castle was before him, below him. It was small, like a toy. He could see the walls, the palace, but the diorama ended there. He was not alone. There was another. He could not see it, but he could sense it. That cold interest. It was focused on him, on the occupants of the castle. Before he could speak or see any more, the door opened.

The Prince stepped through the open door to the audience hall.


End file.
